


Babe, Alone

by luxover



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Time Shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-29
Updated: 2016-11-29
Packaged: 2018-09-02 23:21:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8687506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luxover/pseuds/luxover
Summary: Babe slips out of time, which maybe wouldn’t be such a big deal except for how he doesn’t know how to slip back in, doesn’t know how to undo what he’s somehow done. Doesn’t know how to get back to where everyone is and not be stuck alone for a lifetime in some lousy house in France. Babe hates the French. Babe hates the Germans. Babe hates all of fucking Europe except for the Dutch and just wants to go home. Or: Five Times Babe Slips, and One Time Babe Falls.





	

i.

The first time it happens, they’re in Bastogne. 

Babe goes to sleep in a foxhole that he didn’t dig, pressed tight along the side of Gene’s body, and wakes up alone. For a second, in his sleepy haze, he thinks something must’ve happened for a medic to get called away. Gene’s gone, and Babe runs his hands down the front of his chest, down his thighs, checking.

He does it casually, thoughtlessly, pointlessly. It’s quiet. No one’s calling out for help.

Babe hauls himself out of the foxhole, mindful of his bandaged hand, and crunches through the snow and the branches that have collected on the ground. His footsteps are devastatingly loud in the early morning silence, and with each step, Babe prays he goes unnoticed. There are shell fragments everywhere, but they’re as common as anything by now, and Babe thinks nothing of them, or of the stillness, the lack of birds, the lack of wind. He thinks instead of hot soup. Thinks instead of warm hands.

“Luz,” Babe hisses, closing in on Luz’s foxhole. “Hey, Luz.”

He looks over the lip of the foxhole, and Luz is nowhere to be found. The foxhole’s empty, just a regulation issue blanket left behind.

It’s strange. In and of itself, it’s nothing to worry about, but Babe worries anyway. The hair on the back of his neck stands up. His own breath sounds as loud to him as incoming artillery.

Liebgott isn’t far from here, he remembers. Last night, Liebgott was complaining about the cold and begged off early, walking quickly from where the guys were to where he was bedding down for the night. Babe imitates that walk now and follows suit, heading to Liebgott’s spot on the line. 

But Liebgott’s foxhole is empty, too, and Babe can’t find him anywhere. Babe looks around, but Babe can’t find _anyone_ anywhere. Not Perco, not Shifty, not Bill. None of the new guys, none of the old guys. The front line is gone, poof, and Babe thinks that if he's the last man standing, that someone has to tell command. That _he_ has to tell command. 

There’s a map out next to a cup of hot coffee, next to Captain Winters’s tent, but Winters is gone.

Winters is always there, and now Babe’s the only one. 

Babe stands there in the middle of the woods and looks around, hoping to see an explanation. Everyone, gone. Everyone except for Babe. They were surrounded. They're far from home. They couldn't go anywhere even if they had wanted to. And yet.

For a second, Babe thinks—well, maybe eat first. Maybe get a belly full of food first, and then calm down, figure it out. He looks out towards the line. He thinks—or maybe, maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he just steps out there because he can, because it’s so fucking quiet and everyone’s gone, anyway. 

Nothing happens. The Krauts are as quiet as anything else.

Babe takes another step, and then another, and the Krauts haven’t let off a single shot. Babe doesn’t hear a thing, not yelling, not firefight, not tanks or air. It’s unnaturally quiet. He walks in the direction of Hinkle’s foxhole and maybe even finds it; he’s not sure, because that hole’s empty, too. 

For a second, he thinks of going further, of seeing if the Krauts left any maps out, lying next to hot cups of coffee. He doesn’t, though, because either the Krauts are there and then Babe’s a dead man, or the Krauts aren’t there, and Babe— 

Babe’s alone.

Babe can’t even bring himself to feel cold anymore. Mostly he just feels nothing but adrenaline, and hears nothing other than his own heartbeat in his ears. It's all too real to be a dream. His feet take him to Julian before he can even think about it.

He promised Julian that he’d take his stuff back to the States, give it to Julian’s parents. He also promised, in the kind of way where he didn’t actually promise anything, that he’d tell Julian’s parents that Julian went out like a hero, that it was quick and that it was painless. In reality, it wasn’t any of those things. Julian went out over fucking nothing, drawn out and agonizing, and now—

Now, with Babe standing in the middle of a Belgian forest, Julian’s gone. Julian’s _dead_ and Julian’s _gone_ , and it’s not even about the Krauts stripping him. Julian’s _gone_ , and the only thing left to assure Babe that he was ever even there in the first place is Julian’s blood, right there in the snow, right there until summer melts it away. 

“Zim zam,” Babe says to himself, something he hasn't thought of since he was still a recruit, before he became a replacement. He wonders if this is panic, and then wonders what the hell the past few months have been if it is. That's when he hears it:

A crack.

It’s loud, though. Like the ground splitting open, almost, but from above. Babe knows that noise. Babe _knows_ that noise, only he can’t place it, not when it’s surrounded on all sides by such deafening silence, not when there’s nobody calling for a medic, no sounds of artillery hitting the earth or of trees—

of trees—

Another crack and Babe glances up just in time to watch a large tree trunk splinter and fall closer and closer and clo— 

 

Babe startles awake. He’s in his foxhole. 

“Best I could do,” Spina’s saying apologetically, placing two syrettes of morphine into Gene’s outstretched hand. Babe can only see Spina’s eyes sticking over the lip of the foxhole, and by the time he’s gone, Gene’s already looking at Babe.

“Go back to sleep, Heffron,” Gene says. His nose is bright red, the shadows under his eyes a deep purple. He doesn’t stop looking at Babe the entire time, even as he places the syrettes carefully in his bag. “I’ll watch the line.”

Babe touches the blue cloth wrapped around his hand. He wants to say, _I thought I was all alone_ , and he want to say, _Babe, call me Babe again_ , and he wants to say, _It’s probably a real nice place once the snow’s melted._

Instead he says, “Hi.”

And Gene says, “Hi.”

 

ii. 

Babe wakes up on a couch in Haguenau, in one of the bedrooms that the guys have claimed as their own. It’s fucking freezing. Everything is: Babe, his clothes, the couch. It’s dead silent, too, which is how Babe knows without even sitting up that he’s somehow fallen through the cracks again, slipped right out of time without even realizing it.

That’s what it feels like, really. Slipping out of time. 

Babe rolls off the couch and walks right out of the room. There’s nothing and no one for him there, and his boots are deafening as they hit the ground with each step. Babe’s the only thing around that makes any noise; not even the stairs creak, no water from the taps. The German book Webster’s been reading, snagged from some random house or another, is laid open in one of the sitting rooms, next to a pair of gloves. Babe thinks about taking the gloves, just to keep his hands warm for while he’s slipped, but ultimately doesn’t because he doesn’t know how that affects real life. 

If this isn't real life, anyway. Babe doesn't know what is going on anymore.

Babe walks stiffly through the house, trying to keep worry at bay. The sitting room, the dining room, the ransacked library. It’s all just so quiet. Babe’s breath is the loudest thing in every room, it seems, amplified despite Babe keeping calm and not breathing heavily at all. There’s just nothing at all to cover it up, Babe supposes. No sound. No movement. Nothing.

Babe slips out of time, which maybe wouldn’t be such a big deal except for how he doesn’t know how to slip back _in_ , doesn’t know how to undo what he’s somehow done. Doesn’t know how to get back to where everyone is and not be stuck alone for a lifetime in some lousy house in France. Babe hates the French. Babe hates the Germans. Babe hates all of fucking Europe except for the Dutch and just wants to go home. 

A cup of coffee, maybe. Or, fuck, even just a cup of hot water would be nice, Babe’s so fucking cold. He pulls his knit cap down over his ears, his scarf tighter around his neck, and it’s only when he actually steps into the kitchen that he remembers—

that he sees—

There’s Jackson’s blood all over the table, just like Julian’s blood all over the snow, and Babe thinks maybe he sees the connection now. Maybe he only slips out of time when someone gets killed. Maybe this is his punishment, a brief glance into limbo. Babe feels bad about Jackson, of course he does, but... They’ve been dying left and right and Babe’s becoming numb to it, in the way where he just feels every loss so goddamn much that he comes full circle to feeling nothing at all.

Babe’s not proud of it, but out of all of Jackson dying, what he remembers most is Gene, how Gene rushed in and took over without having to yell, how Gene cupped Jackson’s face and Jackson had just stilled, secure in the knowledge that, for as long as Gene was touching him, he was gonna be alright. Babe selfishly hopes that when his time comes, Gene’s the one helping him through to the other side, even though he knows it’ll tear Gene up inside.

Babe turns to leave, and as he does, he hears what sounds oddly like artillery, loud and distant. Babe feels as green as can be when he reflexively jumps and his hands fly up to cover his head. Dust and sediment shake from the ceiling.

It’s not that he’s not used to artillery, it’s just that he’s not used to it _here_ , not used to _any_ sound here. Another cloud of sediment falls and Babe walks over to the window, kneels on the wooden bench there and looks to see if he can see to the other side. And he can.

He can see the river.

He can see the boats from last night.

Artillery hits nearby. The house rattles, and more sediment falls loose. Babe wonders who’s even firing at them, considering no one else exists.

The house shakes on its foundation again. Dirt and bits of plaster land on Babe.

Babe looks farther out the window and— 

 

Babe wakes up on a couch in one of the bedrooms that the guys have claimed as their own. It’s not empty: Luz is snoring, spread out on the large bed he’s sharing with Perco, and Perco’s left clinging dangerously to the edge of the mattress, his mouth open and drooling. They’re there, though, which means Babe is back. Back in the _here_ , back in the _now_ , as opposed to just slipping out of time like that.

Babe sits up and rubs at the crick in his neck. He’s still so fucking cold, thought he was done with that now that he’s made it out of Bastogne. Maybe Bastogne’ll just stick with him. Maybe Bastogne’s in his bones.

Babe ducks quietly, but not silently, out of the bedroom and walks down the hallway. It’s dark, but he can hear some of the guys talking as he passes their open doorways. They’re shooting dice. Amazing how Babe can tell that from just one glance inside, just from the line of Liebgott’s curved spine.

Gene’s exactly where Babe knew he’d be, exactly where Babe was, hiding out in the ransacked kitchen overlooking the riverbank, staring out the window. Babe doesn’t need the penny for Gene’s thoughts.

“Hey, Gene,” he says.

“Heffron,” Gene greets, and Babe snorts, knocks his shoulders into Gene’s as he climbs onto the wooden bench beside him. Gene retaliates by letting his knee splay wide, bumping into the meat of Babe’s thigh; he leaves it there afterwards, and Babe wonders if he can actually feel the heat from Gene’s leg through two layers of trousers, or if he’s just imagining it because it’s been so long.

“Stuff it,” Babe says. “It’s _Babe_.” He imitates Gene saying it again. “You’ve done it before, I know you can say it.” 

The corner of Gene’s mouth lifts slightly, but it’s all off, all wrong. The kind of thing that’s just forced muscle memory. He doesn’t even look at Babe, just looks out across the river. “Must’a just forgot.”

“You’re the worst kind of tease,” Babe tells him, and he means to follow it up with, _because I don’t even get any hands from you_ , only he doesn’t, because that’s not how he and Gene talk, and because it's a little too real for Babe. Instead, he says the one thing he swore to himself he wasn’t going to say, which is, “Quit blaming yourself for something that ain’t your fault.”

Gene nods slightly, more a sign that he heard than that he agrees, and says, “Fault don’t much matter when there’s a dead boy on the table.”

And Babe—what can Babe say? Babe can’t say anything, and so instead he reaches into the pocket of his cold and dirty field jacket and pulls out a crushed cigarette box. He lights up the last smoke he’s got.

“Hey, share this with me, would ya, Doc?” he says, a peace offering. He holds the smoke out and Gene takes it with pale fingers.

Babe wants to remind Gene that there's no patrol tonight. He wants to say that he’ll sit sentry for a while, so that Gene can sleep. 

Babe watches Gene a minute longer, but in the end, he doesn’t say anything. Words don't help any, and Babe knows that firsthand. 

So the two of them just sit there, in a poorly lit corner of a ransacked room, smoking, their sides pressed together so tightly that not even air remains.

 

iii. 

Everything is beautiful in Berchtesgaden, at the Eagle’s Nest, but it’s a lot less beautiful when Babe’s waking up with a screaming headache, and too much wine in his belly. He shifts on the bed and knocks half a dozen glass bottles onto the floor, and they go skittering and rolling away, crashing into the wall and the dresser and the end table.

That’s all there is to crash into; Babe’s alone, slipped away again.

Babe squints out at the room, and it looks like a disaster zone: wooden crates filled with champagne, their corks already popped and their contents long since gone; red wine stains on the light cream carpeting; a bloodied jacket draped over a leather wingback chair; a pair of skivvies hanging from a lamp. The dead quiet, the calm after the storm.

It was a good time last night—too good—and Babe’s paying for it now, for playing boozy Blackjack and Pitch Penny and being shit at them both, and being forced into drink so damn much because of it. His fault for partnering with Luz and Web at Up Jenkins, especially, as neither of the two knows what the hell a poker face is. How either of them ever stole a piece of gum from a corner shop as kids is beyond Babe.

Babe rolls out of bed and groans as he stands, putting one hand out to block the light from the window. His groan is the loudest thing in the room, and he stumbles to the head, and then immediately back to bed. It’s serious money, where they’re at, and at any other time, Babe’d probably explore, but mostly he’s just focusing on not throwing up. And besides, all the good stuff has already been looted. Anything Babe finds while out of time, the stuff not already set aside to be shipped home, is either not worth it or completely off limits by order of Major Winters.

It’s a bit alarming, though, having slipped out of time again. Babe thinks about it in bed, his arm slung over his eyes to block out the light. Babe thought he got sent here when someone died, and now that’s turned out to not be the case.

Once is an accident, everybody knows that, and twice is a coincidence. This is three times now, though, and three times make a pattern. This pattern is one Babe does not like, and does not understand: Babe, alone.

He tries to fall back asleep—wonders what that’ll do to him—and tries to ignore the pounding in his head. Babe gives thanks for the silence, this time. The silence helps, for once. If Babe survives this, he’s never drinking again. It’s hell. He wonders what Gene would do for him, if Gene were here; probably shrug and say, _You brought this upon yourself, Heffron. I’m a medic, not a miracle worker._ Babe would groan. Babe is groaning now.

He wonders if Gene drinks, or what he does when he relaxes. If he relaxes.

Babe stretches his legs out on the bed and knocks off one last bottle. It hits the ground and the noise it makes when it shatters— 

 

Babe wakes up same as before, to the sound of himself knocking over glass bottles in his sleep. His head kills, just as bad as it was out of time, and this time, when the bottles go rolling across the floor, scattering every which way, a good half of them crash into Martin, who’s passed out on the floor.

Martin wakes up for just long enough to glare at Babe, and then rolls over, passes out again. Babe takes a large, unsteady step over him and considers himself lucky that he doesn’t get purposefully tripped on the way out.

In the hallway, Babe runs into Spina, who is slowly, slowly closing a bedroom door, inch by inch so that it doesn’t make any noise.

“Hey, Doc,” Babe whispers. “You seen Gene?”

Spina lets go when the door is only open about half a foot, and then turns to Babe. “Yeah,” he whispers back. Spina looks at him like Babe’s a walking miracle, just for being up and alive at this hour, after last night. Babe must look rough. “He’s in there sleeping, or as close as he gets, anyway. Need anything?” 

“Nah,” Babe says, another whisper, even quieter than before. His poor head. “Thanks, though.”

“Sure thing,” Spina says, and Babe watches him walk down the hallway to the stairs, and then down the stairs, and then out of sight. Each step of his equals a pounding in Babe’s skull.

Babe should head back to his own room and sleep it off, or follow after Spina and go looking for some hair of the dog, but instead, he peeks his head around the door in front of him. Gene’s sitting upright in an armchair, his head drooping low, and Babe nearly jumps out of his skin when Gene’s entire body jerks himself out of sleep. Gene’s eyes open, just for a second, and then slip shut again. A minute later, Gene’s head starts to list towards the side.

Babe pictures himself, for a second, walking in and shaking Gene awake. He’d make Gene move a few feet over to the couch. He pictures himself laying Gene down, and then laying himself behind Gene, having to slot their knees together in such a small space. He pictures, just for a moment, his lips on the back of Gene’s neck.

Babe stands there until Gene jerks himself awake again, and then he steps out of the doorway and goes back to get some more sleep himself.

He can’t afford to think like this.

 

iv. 

Babe remembers how tight the fit was on the ships that carried them to Europe. The racks and racks of beds as high as the eye could see, and that was just the replacements. Months and months later, on the way home with less men, the fit was somehow just as tight, and with only Babe aboard, the fit tighter still. Funny how that works.

This time around, Babe doesn't really bother going anywhere, doesn't bother exploring the narrow hallways or the wide open decks of the troop ship. Why bother? Babe’ll be alone until he's not anymore, and it's not like there's anyplace to go. He has no interest in reading Webster’s diary, no interest in stealing one of Malarkey’s smokes. No, Babe’ll just wait right here until time comes back, until he gets home to the US of A.

Babe places his hands behind his head and shuts his eyes. The stillness and silence is somehow lessened on a ship like this, probably because it looks as isolated as it sounds. All metal, totally contained. Besides, if Babe listens carefully enough, it's almost like he can hear boots on the ladder rungs climbing up to the next level.

And Babe… Babe _can_ hear boots on the ladder rungs, and without even thinking about what it might mean, Babe throws himself from his bunk to the floor, landing pretty gracelessly. He double-times it to the end of the cabin, steps out into the hallway there and—

A person. At the end of the hall. Turning left into the stairwell to head up to the deck. Babe’s heart jumps in his throat because this is new. This has never happened before. Dark hair ducks around the corner and Babe’s still so surprised that he almost forgets to say anything.

“Hey!” he calls out. His voice echoes and echoes throughout the narrow metal hallway, and Babe starts into a jog to catch up. His toe catches on the lip to one of the watertight doors and for a second, Babe’s weightless, falling— 

 

Babe blinks awake and stares at the bottom of the bed rack above his. He can see the indentation from the weight of Skinny’s body, knows that if Skinny is there, so is everyone else, Liebgott taking up an entire bunk himself across the way, Gene and Spina in the bunk below, Luz probably out on the ship’s deck.

Babe lets out a sigh through his nose and shifts on his bed rack. He shuts his eyes and tries to go back to sleep, but now that he's up, he's up. He can't stop thinking. Did he see someone over there, out of time? Babe's not seen anyone before, and this time he almost could've sworn— 

But no. Babe may be a lot of things, but he's no fool, and he knows when something’s actually there, and when he's just seeing something because he wants to be seeing it. Him. Seeing him. It's all the same.

A noise from below Babe’s bunk startles him. It sounds like… not quite a nightmare, really, but… And they all have them, they do, even the ones who swear up and down that they don't. Babe’s seen every last one of them wake up after not sleeping, or wake up shouting, wake up crying. Wake up silent. It's all better than not waking up at all, and it's not Babe’s place to judge; he’s in the same boat, literally and figuratively.

Still, Babe looks over the edge of his hammock, to Gene down below, Spina fast asleep wedged in next to him. Gene’s eyebrows are furrowed even in sleep, and right as Babe’s watching, Gene wakes up with a start. It takes him a second to realize where he is, and when he does, Babe can see him relax.

“You alright, Gene?” he asks, and Gene’s eyes are tight with sleep.

Gene blinks a few times and then says, “Yeah.” His voice is raw. Another minute goes by and then he says, “How’s the scarring?”

It’s a deflection. It’s also routine for them, by this point. Gene never forgets to ask every few days. Babe hangs his hand over the railing, palm down to show Gene, and Gene reaches up to inspect it, his hand surprisingly warmer than Babe’s. He runs his thumb over the flat of Babe’s palm. After he’s done, he does it again, dragging his thumb from the heel of Babe’s palm to the base of his fingers and back. Babe’s still staring down at him, the entire time.

It’s almost like they’re holding hands, Babe thinks. He doesn’t want Gene to stop, but he doesn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea, either. He settles for just leaving it up to Gene, how long it goes on for, because Gene… He’s got a good head, unlike Babe.

“Will you write?” Gene asks him, his eyes still trained on Babe’s palm, his thumb still dragging back and forth. Back and forth. 

For a second, Babe doesn’t understand the question, everything in the world narrowed down to the point where Gene’s thumb meets Babe’s palm. _Write?_ he thinks. _Write what?_ It’s only then that he remembers, and how stupid to have forgotten: 

Home for Babe is not home for Gene.

“ _Gene_ ,” Babe says. 

Gene says, “I know,” and the smallest, most shameful part of Babe yearns for the war.

 

v. 

Babe wakes up in his own bed in South Philly, the sun streaking in through the gaps in the blinds, and just like that, he knows. There’s nothing happening outside, no birds, no traffic, no one shouting to each other from across the street. None of the sounds Babe grew up to, none of the sounds that he knows as well as he knows his own heartbeat. 

At first, Babe kind of likes it, wandering around his hometown without having to dodge people or cars. He wanders in and out of the shops, not looting anything but just looking, taking detours and revisiting all the places he used to love. He’s got nowhere specific to be, so he takes the long way each time. 

It hits him as he’s crossing the street, hits him in the way where his rib cage feels too small to hold everything in. He wants to laugh, really laugh, but it comes out more like a wheeze than anything else. He puts his hands on his knees to catch his breath, and straightens once he has it. Because— 

Here he is, Edward Heffron of the Screaming Eagles, World War II survivor and terrible Up Jenkins player, home in one piece in South Philly. Lotta boys lost their lives, and while Babe’s still healing—never gonna be healed—he takes a moment to stand in the middle of a normally busy intersection and marvel over the fact that he’s here. 

He’s _here_. His ma is here, and his pop, and his brothers still. His old girlfriend from school, Dolores, and her good friend Frannie. Bill’s here, too, and ain’t that some luck. Turning the corner one afternoon to see the rear end of a crouched Bill Guarnere, throwing dice out on the street. Two legs in his trousers. _Just waitin’ til I can trick the Army into giving me full disability, and then_ —a whistling noise and the jerk of his thumb— _this old piece of junk fake is outta here_. Babe’s even seen Joe Toye, swinging on through town to say hello.

But they ain’t here now, Babe realizes. No one’s here now. Babe trudges home alone, the most direct route.

In the kitchen, he picks up the phone and dials Bill’s number, just to see. It rings and rings, and Babe lets it for longer than he should. No one’s going to answer; he’s not an idiot. He puts the receiver back in the cradle and is about to walk away, but then— 

He’s got a letter from Gene on the countertop, and Babe’s read the letter easily a dozen times, more than enough to know how Gene wrote his phone number at the bottom, right there underneath his sign-off: _Take care of yourself. Gene_.

And Babe? Babe’s been through hell and made it out the other side alive, and he’d do it again if he had to, but dialling those numbers at the bottom of Gene’s letter scares him shitless. A whole month has passed, and he still can’t bring himself to do it. Seems to get harder and harder each day. Babe doesn’t even know what he’d say.

It’s much easier this time, when there’s no way Gene’s picking up. The number dials easily. The phone rings and rings, like Bill all over again, and no Gene, and ain't that a trip? Babe was always taught that medics would answer if he called them. Well, he’s calling. He lets it ring once more, twice more just because he can, and then— 

“H’lo?” Gene says. It comes out in a rush, spoken before the receiver is really at his mouth, and it catches Babe by surprise. He wasn’t expecting anyone to be picking up, let alone Gene. Babe has missed this. Missed Gene. Fuck, Babe’s chest feels tight with it, with just how much he missed Gene.

And that's when Babe realizes: Gene answered the phone. Babe’s slipped out of time, but there’s Gene. Constant and steady. Babe called, and Gene answered.

“Hello?” Gene says again, insistent. “Anyone there?”

And that's when Babe realizes he hasn't said anything. So he says, “Yeah, hey, Gene? It's, uh. It's Babe.”

“ _Babe_ ,” Gene says. His voice sounds—reverent, maybe. Or maybe just relieved. Maybe Babe’s just hearing what he wants to hear.

“Yeah. You know. Heffron,” Babe says haltingly, because Gene’s never said his name like that before, and although Babe liked it, he doesn't know how slipping works for everyone else. Didn't know it even _happened_ for anyone else. Maybe Gene slips out of time and forgets. Forgets what it’s like and what it’s not like.

But Gene just lets out a breath that Babe knows would be a laugh from anyone else, and says, “And here I thought you preferred _Babe_.”

“Shut up,” Babe says. In Philly, out of time, he winds the phone cord around a finger as tight as he can, to keep himself in the moment. “How’d you answer your phone?”

“Same as everyone else,” Gene says carefully. “I just picked up.”

“No one else to pick up, here in Philly,” Babe tells him, and the silence only lasts a second, but it's loud enough that it reminds him of that first time, right before the _crack_ in Bastogne.

Gene finally says, “I thought it was just me.”

“No,” Babe tells him. “How long have you been slipping?”

“Slippin’?” Gene asks.

“Yeah, from time,” Babe explains.

A beat and then Gene says, “Ah. I dunno. Since after the first jump, I guess, when I fell asleep that night. Tried not to fall asleep too much, after that.”

“It only happens in sleep for me, too,” Babe says, “but it’s not so bad that I avoided sleeping.”

“Yeah,” Gene allows. Gene sounds like he doesn't know if he should keep talking, but like he can't stop himself. “But I didn't—I _don't_ understand it. And I thought… What if I was gone, and someone got hurt?”

Babe doesn't know how to respond, doesn't know if it's better or worse to know now that the reason for Gene’s exhaustion wasn't just all the dying happening around them, but all the saving, too. So instead of touching that, he says, “I’ve never heard of anything like this happening before. Have you?”

A beat passes and then Gene says quietly, “A traiteur out in Bayou Lafourche. I can ask about it, but people just thought he was crazy.”

“Did you?” Babe asks, and it takes another beat too long for Gene to answer, so Babe switches, “I wonder why I never saw you.”

“Maybe it never happened at the same time. Just said I didn’t sleep much.”

And there's a lot Babe wants to say to him, things like, _I wish it had_ , and, _I wish you had_ , and, _It's already better with you,_ but instead he says, “My first time was in Bastogne. I went looking for Julian.”

“Heffron,” Gene says. “ _Babe_ , I'm—”

“He wasn't there, obviously,” Babe says, suddenly unsure and off-kilter. He's not sure why he said that. He doesn't want Gene’s pity, and he certainly doesn't want Gene to say what he was about to, not for something that wasn't his fault. Babe knows Gene feels it too much as is, for too many people.

“Are you busy? If I took the train to Philly?”

And for some reason that Babe doesn't quite understand, he needs to know, and so he asks carefully, “Because of Julian?”

“No,” Gene says, tentative. “Because…” 

He trails off. Maybe he can't find the words, and maybe neither can Babe, because all Babe says back is, “Okay.”

“Yeah?” Gene asks, double-checking, and Babe says— 

 

Babe wakes up in his own bed and doesn’t say anything at all. Instead, he lies there and listens to the traffic outside his window, the buses going past and the two old Irish grandmothers wishing each other a toppa the morn. 

For a while, he lies there in bed and tries to fall back asleep. Maybe Gene’ll still be there, he thinks, even though it’s a longshot. It doesn’t matter in the end, anyway. Babe can’t sleep, can’t stop thinking for long enough to, so he rolls out of bed and showers.

That’s something Babe has missed: a shower. Sometimes he showers twice a day now, just making up for lost times, memories of being dirty and sweaty and hungry all on loop in his brain. Then he goes to make breakfast, has a bacon sandwich, and then goes down to the corner store to buy an egg cream, even though it’s early, just because.

The phone is ringing in the kitchen as Babe’s walking back into his apartment, and he quickly kicks the door shut behind him, nearly killing himself tripping over his own damn feet in a rush to answer the phone. Because maybe it’s— 

“Hello?” he says, an imitation of Gene, rushed and answering before the receiver is fully up to his mouth.

“Yowwza!” Bill’s standard greeting since they've been home. Of course it’s Bill. Makes sense. Bill told him to keep the day open, said they had plans and refused to tell them to Babe.

“Oh. Yo.” Babe’s standard response, somewhat subdued.

“That’s it? Yeah, yeah, hello to you too, sunshine,” Bill says. 

“No, no, sorry,” Babe says. He presses the heel of his palm into one closed eye. “Was just expecting someone else.”

“A broad?”

“Yeah, Fran said she needed a real man to take her out,” Babe quips. Better not to say Gene, because… Well, Babe doesn’t know if any of that actually happened, anyway. Maybe if he calls Gene… 

“Babe, I love you like a brother but I’d kill ya with my own two hands,” Bill says, barely even a threat, and Babe laughs a little, mostly just a rush of air through his nose. “Now come on, I’ve got us in a darts tournament this afternoon.”

“I’m shit at darts.”

“Yeah, that’s why I’m takin’ you,” Bill says. “I need you to look bad so I can sneak up and win the damn thing. I’ll even split the pot with you, seventy-thirty. Alright? So meet me outside in ten.”

And then he hangs up. And Babe? Babe meets him outside in ten, because what else does he have to do?

Bill wins it handily because he’s just as dirty a bastard as Buck Compton at these things, and Babe spends the entire evening drinking beer and thinking about Gene. He gives in and calls when he gets home, the first time calling Gene in the _now_ , and even as it’s ringing, Babe wonders what he’s going to say, what Gene’s going to say. If Gene’s still coming. If Gene wasn’t just something Babe’s brain made up.

Gene doesn’t answer. The noise when Babe hangs up the receiver is so loud that, if he didn’t know any better, he’d almost think he had slipped out of time.

 

i. 

Babe wakes up three days later to the sound of an ambulance siren sailing past. Not slipping then. Babe’s awake. Babe’s still in Philly. Better than the alternative.

It’s not that slipping out of time bothers him, exactly. It's boring, sure, but nothing ever happens. One time thinking he saw someone, one time he talked, maybe, to Gene, but other than that? No one. Nothing. Just Babe. Nothing comes of it but a waste of non-time. He used to wonder what it was about, why him, all of that, but now—he’s used to it by now, and it’s not like slipping out of time means missing out on anything when the clock’s running. It’s just that he’s frustrated because he doesn’t understand it, or why it's happening, or how long it'll keep happening. He doesn't understand the rules. It’s not—it’s not _fair_ for him to get to talk to Gene out of time, but not in real life. It's not _fair_ that maybe none of that was real, that maybe he just made that Gene up.

Gene said he’d come, but it’s been days. Babe had called him, but Gene hadn’t answered.

Babe’s just tired of it. Slipping isn't a hassle except for when it's a heartbreak.

Babe goes on a run, goes to church, and makes himself a bacon and egg sandwich for lunch when he gets back. By then, it's one in the afternoon and he’s run out of things to do. Laundry’s done, same as the shopping. Bill’s out on a date with Fran, and Babe’s own flesh and blood brothers are too busy doing god knows what to hang out with him. He writes a letter to Luz, grasping at straws; it passes about fifteen minutes.

For all that war is hell, there's nothing quite like getting shot at to make things exciting.

A knock at the door around half past three has Babe nearly dropping his book on his face in surprise. It's a dirty book, one Bill got him as a joke, and Babe stuffs it in the couch cushions just in case that’s his ma knocking.

Smoothing down the front of his shirt and opening the door, Babe sees— 

Definitely not his ma.

“Hi,” Gene says with a quirk of his lips. His hair is longer than when Babe last saw him, sticking up wildly in the back despite noticeable effort having been made to make it lie flat. He looks healthy, more relaxed, maybe a little happier. His nose isn’t red. The bruises underneath his eyes are faded. He’s in a jacket even though it’s barely autumn.

He looks like the best damn thing Babe’s ever seen.

“I thought you weren’t coming,” Babe says dumbly, and his mother would smack him upside the head for that one, if she knew. Gene’s entire face shutters and his posture stiffens, and Babe’s still standing there, blocking the doorway.

“Oh,” Gene says. “I thought—” 

“No,” Babe rushes. Gene is _here_ , Gene is _now_ , and Babe’s ruining everything by sticking his foot in his mouth. He doesn't know how to tell Gene that out of everyone, Gene’s the one Babe has missed the most. “I mean, I wasn’t sure any of that actually happened. I tried to call you.”

“Ah,” Gene says, letting his shoulders relax. He takes a second, and Babe can see it all over his face, how he’s putting two and two together. “I was on a train.”

“So I’ve come to realize,” Babe deadpans, and then he steps aside, ushers Gene in. When the door is closed behind them, the two of them standing in Babe’s small entryway, Babe for a second worries about what to say. He takes the duffel off of Gene’s shoulder and sets it down next to the hall closet, just to buy himself some time.

“I’ve never slept so much in my life,” Gene tells him, breaking the silence growing between them. “The past few days, I mean.”

“Oh,” Babe says, and Gene can't possibly mean it the way it sounds. Gene’s not like Babe. Babe wants to make a joke and laugh it off, just to cover up what he actually wants it to mean, but he doesn’t. He can’t think of a joke, can only think about Gene sleeping to find him.

“Do you—do you not?” Gene asks quietly. He’s not saying it, but Babe can’t blame him, because Babe’s not exactly saying it either. It's surprising, though, that Gene’s not-saying it at all, genuinely surprising to Babe to watch Gene talk around it. His eyebrows are furrowed, but other than that, the nervousness makes Gene look like someone Babe’s never seen before, except for how Babe knows him exactly. He rocks forward on his toes and then scrubs an open hand over the back of his head, flattening his unruly hair. He takes a step back. “I should—”

“I do,” Babe says, and he reaches out to grab Gene with a hand around his wrist. Babe’s thoughts are moving slowly, as if through molasses. He really just never thought Gene would mean what Babe wanted him to mean. “Sorry, I just—I wish I could say I just woke up, but honestly I just never thought you’d… I just never thought you would.”

“Well, I do,” Gene tells him, and Babe’s hand takes on a mind of its own, one far braver than Babe’s, because it slides up Gene’s arm, dances over the skin of Gene’s neck, and settles on Gene’s jaw. He’s just shaved. Babe probably looks a wreck.

“Can I?” Babe asks, and Gene steps forward, slotting his hips against Babe’s. 

“You oughta,” Gene tells him, but then he doesn’t bother waiting, just leans forward and does it himself. He presses his lips against Babe’s, and Babe’s never kissed a man before, but he’s kissed women and slept with women, and he likes this just as much as he likes the others, only he likes it more because it’s Gene.

Babe’s skin is burning up everywhere it’s touching Gene’s, his hand on Gene’s jaw, his lips on Gene’s lips. Their tongues. Gene’s fingers squeezing Babe’s hip, Gene’s thumb slipped up underneath Babe’s shirt. It’s almost too much, in a strange way where it’s also never going to be enough. He presses harder into Gene, balls the fingers of his free hand in the front of Gene’s ironed shirt.

When Gene eventually pulls back, it’s only pride that keeps Babe from following.

“I guess that’s how it’s done,” Gene says, dazed. He’s smiling. Babe’s falling in love.

And Babe says, “I guess it is.”


End file.
